


you'll never find the answers (until you set your old heart free)

by for_within_the_hollow_crown



Series: drift back to me (I’ll do the same) [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_within_the_hollow_crown/pseuds/for_within_the_hollow_crown
Summary: "Stay," she whispered. "For the night."The words filled the space between them and hung in the air. It was a bold move, an honest one, that had neither the hesitation nor the playfulness of previous conversations. It was far over the line of what was proper and it was something that could run in any possible direction, something they couldn't come back from."Jemma, you don't mean that-""I think I do."





	you'll never find the answers (until you set your old heart free)

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a series that won't be told in chronological order.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

 

London 1920

 

The water kettle started boiling, the sharp sound of it erupting and filling the air, vanishing little by little as Jemma emptied its content into the two cups placed on the counter - steam slowly rising, lifting itself into the air, fading away and vanishing completely only after having danced around, swirled in the air in a mesmerizing white pattern.

"You know," Fitz said, leaning against the doorframe with a hesitant smile on his face - the corners of his mouth appeared to be twitching, mirroring an overall inability on his side to decide which words were right to speak and which weren't. Old wounds were still there, memories now distant in time fresh if triggered and emotions never quite under control; it was all relatively new and their friendship, which had in the most recent past, been reestablished, was a solid ground to fall back onto, but mistaken for fragile territory ruled by the simple rule that some words were still unspeakable and some actions were still not allowed. "This flat isn't exactly a place I'd imagine you to live in."

"No doubt you were thinking of me in some grand estate or a house in Eaton Square," Jemma joked. "But I've told you, Fitz, many years ago, that I didn't need a carbon copy of my old life to be happy. Besides, this was Will's and we got married soon after the war broke out, hardly any time to move anywhere."

He shrugs. "I know, I didn't mean it as- it suits you."

"It's just a flat, Fitz."

"It makes you appear off guard, you didn't look like this back in Yorkshire. You look more like yourself if that makes any sense. Wait, let me."

He took his cup from her hands, fingers holding the porcelain tightly as the warmth of the hot liquid spread on his skin - a welcomed feeling in such a gloomy and cold day - and followed Jemma back into the living room.

It was an open space with windows that faced the street on one side, a piano in a corner, some book shelves and a dining table that was at the moment filled with some old copies of The Sketch and paper sheets filled with Jemma's handwriting. An old photo with broken corners and ruined edges placed beside them, half covered by notes and yet the picture long turned yellow still neat and distinguishable - Will, smiling into the camera - and Fitz couldn't not look at it, nor curiosity nor malice in his actions, not even some of the jealousy that had once painted his words and actions, drove him, but rather turning his thoughts back for a moment to a man that he had known in his youth and that, somehow, had played a part in his and Jemma's history. Not friends, they hadn't known each other enough to call themselves that, but civil, all conversations reduced to questions about the estate or the newspaper if not driven forward by Jemma's brother.

"I'm sorry about the mess," Jemma told him, bringing him back from his thoughts and causing him to look away. "I'm just going to put these away and-"

Her voice sounded apologetic. "Jemma, there's no need to."

No need to put it away, no need to worry about having a picture of her dead husband between her things, no need to apologize. It made him feel as an intruder of sorts, but then again it had been Jemma to tell him to wait until the rain stopped before making his way back home - no need to get drenched in the storm, when he could have just as easily waited at hers for the storm to be over. He felt like apologizing if his gaze had seemed out of place before an even bigger misunderstanding would come out of it and yet, Fitz couldn't help but feel as if the words to apologize weren't much these, but rather the ones spoken six years earlier. Their friendship had resumed and yet, despite all former clarifications and apologies, that afternoon of nineteen fourteen still overshadowed all of their actions.

"No, I'll do it. We'll have some space for the cups and-"

Silence fell, but for the sound of the rain hitting against the windows; a regular _tick, tick, tick_ similar to the noise of a typewriter. And they found themselves yet again unable to step over the inanities, the truth being this: any sort of reconciliation had been longed for and imagined for years, forgiveness so prompt in being given after the time spent apart and after both anger and frustration had faded away, that they had and still found themselves unsure from where to start. There was a lack of confidence in grabbing the larger thought, both of them stood too nervous and hesitant to move the conversation any further than small and broken sentences. They had been friends and their stories were resuming, but then what? All they had had rested on a childhood friendship, on a juvenile affection that had turned into love, and unspoken dreams. Did they still matter? Neither could tell. And they were too afraid of the silence that might follow those questions and the awkwardness that would inevitably come along with it, to ask those questions out loud.

"You've got a gramophone," he said, as he looked at the pile of records beside it, seeing if he could recognize one.

"It was Will's. And it's broken," she cut him short, her voice coming out sharper and colder than intended, all sharp edges and hard sounds. By the time she got to the end of the sentence, the last syllables of it pronounced out loud, she appeared to be breathless after having spoken too fast just so as to get sooner to the end of it.

"I can fix it if you want me to."

"No," she paused. "Maybe one day."

"You still owe me six years of Christmas balls," he joked, trying to lighten the mood a little, push the conversation into a completely different direction before words were spoken that they'd end up regretting.

"If anything," Jemma replied with some of the cheek he knew too well. "You owe me six years. And my parents didn't have Christmas balls during war time, so it's just two. And you're the one who didn't- What are you doing?"

She looked skeptically at his stretched out hand. "The gramophone is not working, I just told you."

"We can still dance."

"Yes, why not?"

"I know you like to be asked properly. Jemma, can I have this dance?"

A laugh escaped her throat, vibrant, unrestricted, and crystal clear, as she took his hand and smiled at him. Trembling fingers, on both sides. Shortness of breath and fear of this slipping away from them, on both sides. Hesitance as Fitz moved his hand around Jemma's waist, his light grip becoming more confident with every second that was being ticked away by the clock in the corner. Jemma took his hand, gently placing her palm in his, before stepping closer - their bodies now inches apart. It was a reminiscence of the old days: they had danced together plenty of times, something that had started out as a joke because their conversation made up for the boredom that usually arose in such an occasion, the first and last dance always booked to the other person; and yet their dancing had somehow diminished in length in fear of being caught holding a glance for too long and fingers lingering on skin.

"Your hands are freezing," Fitz observed, closing his hand around hers.

Jemma looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and smiled. "They are, aren't they? Like little ice-buckets - that's what... No, never mind."

"How are things at The Sketch?"

"I'm trying to get used to it, Daisy is helpful. So helpful in fact, that sometimes I feel like I should resign and switch places with her."

"She'll be happy to hear that."

"She has already heard that, but refused. Daisy said, and I quote her verbatim, that she loves investigating and writing too much to go working behind a desk and just put the paper together," she paused. "I have no idea what I'm doing half of the time, but damn it I went to Oxford, surely I can figure that out."

"Surely."

They closed their eyes, enjoying the proximity and listening to the sound of the rain hitting on the windows. They hadn't been this close in years, both physically and emotionally, and the feeling of having the other so close to them, holding them as if they were the most precious thing on earth, felt so good - out of time and space, the past could not reach them. There had been, years ago, two people standing under an oak tree - the sun shining through the leaves, a game of shadows on the grass, tears in their eyes and anger in their voices - but those people seemed in that moment as if they belonged to another lifetime, all difficulties momentarily forgotten.

"Jemma-" Fitz spoke first, her name spoken out loud sounded like a new word instead of an old one, the syllables the same but their meaning - different.

She moved her hand to his cheek and brushed over his cheek with her thumb, small movements back and forth, his stubble ticklish on her skin. She felt him lean into the touch ever so slowly, his head leaning to the side as if to make the most of such contact, something brief that might stop soon; unsurprisingly, he didn't want it to stop. Faces moving closer with infinite and gentle delegation, disbelief and surprise filled their movements and caused them to widen and close the distance all over, willingly, patiently and yielding as if they were still trying to make up their minds on what to do.

And then Jemma's mouth on the corner of his, away again and then kissing him properly; they had been apart for years, but the feeling of her lips on his was reminiscence enough of the days gone by. There was more confidence in both their movements and less desperation, especially if compared to the last one they had shared. There was no fear of getting caught either, which fueled on both sides the feeling of having all the time in the world - no one barging in meaning that there was no need to keep it quick either.

It was tender and languid movements, the feelings of lips pressed against lips enough for the time being and them unable or unwilling to take it any further. They stopped dancing and Jemma moved her hands to his cheeks, cupping them and holding him close, smiling against his lips and Fitz moved his hands behind her back. Seconds ticked away and them not moving, that was the kiss. Basking in this momentary and long wanted situation, that was the kiss too. And then Jemma, quite daringly, touched his lips with the tip of her tongue and he opened his mouth until it was the feeling of tongues touching - moist and slippery muscle against moist and slippery muscle. It was exploration and hunger, the kiss becoming less chaste with every sigh and every movement, sweet and demanding and filled with promises.

Breathless they parted, foreheads touching and a string of saliva going from mouth to mouth and a content smile on their lips. Jemma knew that she should tell Fitz in all honesty and without holding back, words freely spilled out in the space between them, that this wasn't a game of second bests; if anything Fitz deserved to know it in that moment, future doubts immediately erased. It wasn't a game of second bests and she had not kissed him because he was there and she was alone, and she was just taking him back because Will had died two years earlier. No, it was about genuine feelings that had never really faded and the acceptance of life going on; and if friendship was still there, and if they had managed to leave the past behind and grow in two different people, and if forgiveness had been granted on both sides, wasn't it possible that old feelings could resume too? This was how things should have been, or rather, could have been had their own inaction and stubbornness not shaped history to take another direction. Heart had been broken and dreams abandoned, but they had come in which all of it was there in their hands again. a second chance of sorts not to be let slip away.

"Stay," she whispered. "For the night."

The words filled the space between them and hung in the air. It was a bold move, an honest one, that had neither the hesitation nor the playfulness of previous conversations. It was far over the line of what was proper and it was something that could run in any possible direction, something they couldn't come back from.

"Jemma, you don't mean that-"

"I think I do."

"I can't," he paused and looked at her. "If I stay, I'm not sure I want to stop."

"Then we don't stop. We have wasted a lot of time, Fitz, and things were as they were; but we are here and we are now and you just have to say that you want this, that you'll stay with me - no matter what we might or might not do."

He looked at her in complete and utter bewilderment, and some fear for the upcoming intimacy, so much wanted on both sides, was also some sort of point of no return from which events would run away and possibly leaving them behind, unable to catch up.

"And what about the whole- what about your promise to the memory of Will? Won't you regret it? I couldn't do that Jemma."

"I think," she took a deep breath. "I don't think he would want us to be sad, he was someone who had never caused a moment of sorrow in his whole life."

Fitz nodded for in fact it had been a long time since the realization on both sides that whatever sorrow and heartbreak there had been in the past had been only their fault. They had, for many different reasons, brought it upon themselves, but the time had come to put things right and started again first with actions and then with words, the first coming infinitely more easily than the latter.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated.


End file.
